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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29166750">Heartbeat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoffic/pseuds/psychoffic'>psychoffic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Boys Kissing, Confusion, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Heartbeats, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Pining John, Prompt Fic, Sherlock is a Mess, Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:21:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,764</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29166750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoffic/pseuds/psychoffic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John was in love with Sherlock. That was clear. But he was deathly afraid of the detective finding out and rejecting him. So he learned to steady his heartbeat, to hide his feelings. </p><p>Sherlock is terrified when the final piece of the puzzle, John's heartbeat, does not fit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heartbeat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamaria_12/gifts">Lamaria_12</a>.</li>

        <li>
          Translation into Русский available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333823">Сердцебиение</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avasonta/pseuds/Avasonta">Avasonta</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This prompt was given to me by Lamaria_12! If you are interested, you can also comment below and request your own prompts, the work will be gifted to you. :)</p><p>Enjoy, feedback is most welcome!</p><p>This fic has also been translated into Russian thanks to Avasonta!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the army every decision was made for you. During training, sergeants told you where you ate, where you slept, where you breathed. Everything. After training, John was thrown into Afghanistan, with its scorching sun and wild dust that clogged every pore you possessed. There your hands did the work, as they clamped down on bloody wounds and broken bones. John felt like a textbook, every procedure ingrained in his mind to where he did not need to think. His hands simply moved, his body guiding him when his mind couldn't. </p><p> </p><p>And then he was shot. </p><p> </p><p>John was forced back to London, mundane days replacing the battlefield. He would sit in his shabby apartment living off army pension. A small sandwich, some cereal would suffice him throughout the day. He would browse his laptop, take walks around the park. Listen to occasional gunshots and police sirens at night as he stared at the ceiling at night, his hand twitching towards the gun in his drawer. The point was, he was no longer in the army. John had his whole life to think for himself now, with nothing but mundane activities to occupy him. </p><p> </p><p>Then Sherlock came into his life. Full of energy. His mind always racing as he bounced between crime scenes, figuring out the cases at a supernatural speed. John was no longer sitting on his bed starting at the ceiling wondering if today was the day he would put a bullet through his head. This life with Sherlock was familiar; it reminded him of the army. Adrenaline spiking through his veins, his forehead laden with sweat as they raced through London. </p><p> </p><p>And perhaps that was what made John fall for Sherlock. Running through London with Sherlock, danger at every step, his whole body vibrating with energy as they raced to solve crimes. He loved the feeling he got with Sherlock. He fell in love with the feeling the detective gave him and slowly that love turned its aim to the man himself. </p><p> </p><p>But John knew Sherlock. The man was deathly afraid of romantic relations, nonetheless sexual ones. He would never reciprocate John's feelings. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes when John lay at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the vibrant violin from the living room, he would ponder. Ponder whether to confess his feelings to Sherlock. Because it was difficult, so difficult to stand by his side everyday and ignore the way his heart fluttered at every smile. Or the way lust shot through his veins everytime those piercing green eyes looked at him. It was draining, to love from afar. But if he did confess, what would happen? Sherlock would distance himself, maybe even kick John out of the flat, stating ‘Love is a deficiency found on the losing side.’. As he insisted on reminding John every step of the way.</p><p> </p><p>That was the problem with love. Love made you crave emotion, made you crave reciprocation. But love also made you fear that a confession would lead to losing the only thing keeping you away from the gun in your drawer. It was pathetic really. How much John loved Sherlock, how much he craved him. He was a soldier, he had been in a war, he had been shot. Yet he could imagine no pain like rejection from his love. </p><p> </p><p>That is why John began to train himself. He could not tell Sherlock about his affection, and if Sherlock found out… well John was unsure what the man would say or do. But how do you stop a brilliant detective that has solved mass terrorist crimes from finding out about your feelings? By training your body. </p><p> </p><p>In the army John was taught to control his heartbeat. Everytime he saw a fellow soldier writhing in pain, blood spurting from his wounds, Johns heartbeat would pick up. Going so fast that he could barely hear anything around him, and his hands began to shake terribly. It was no use to have a doctor who could not even stitch up a simple laceration. The first time it happened John was standing over a soldier that had just been shot in the leg. The leg was bleeding profusely. The man was screaming something terrible. John stood over him, his hands shaking, his vision swimming. A fellow doctor snatched the med kit from John, slapping him across the face to get him to focus. John had never felt such shame, knowing that if the fellow doctor was a second too late the soldier at his feet would have bled out.</p><p> </p><p>Later that evening, the fellow doctor came to his cot. He sat down, took one of John's hands and began to talk. He talked about his first time seeing a wounded soldier, how he also froze in terror. He talked about how the shame coiled around him. He explained that it was okay, John would learn. But most importantly, he explained how one controls their heartbeat. ‘You need to focus John, because one day I may not be there, one day you may be alone and someone is dying at your feet. What are you going to do if your hands shake so bad you can’t stitch up the wound?’ He was right. It was pathetic for a doctor like himself. </p><p> </p><p>They had a few sessions, where the doctor explained how to breathe properly, how to still your hands, how to stop your heartbeat beating like mockingbirds wings. John listened intently. The next time there was a writhing soldier at his feet, John did not shake, he did not hesitate. And it felt so good, to help someone, to save a life. </p><p> </p><p>John continued to practice. Everytime he crouched over a dead body with Sherlock, or felt the barrel of a gun on his back. Breath. In and out. In and out. Concentrate. Steady your mind. And his heartbeat would continue on perfectly, unfazed by the world around it. John kept up the practice around Sherlock. Everytime the man leaned in too close and John could smell his delicious cologne. Evertime their hands brushed together and John would imagine holding that hand in his own. </p><p> </p><p>Because John would be damned if he lost Sherlock over his inability to hide his feelings. For him, it was better to live with unrequited love than no love at all. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Johnnnnn.” Sherlock drawled out from his place on the couch. </p><p> </p><p>John rolled his eyes as he lowered his newspaper, looking over at the man. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tea.” </p><p> </p><p>“I am not your maid.” </p><p> </p><p>John was not graced with a response. He shrugged and brought the paper back up, reading over the daily news. But he felt Sherlocks burning gaze through the newspaper, eventually forcing him out of his seat. Damn this man and his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly John trudged to the kitchen, putting on a kettle and pulling out some cups that were not filled with eyeballs. John gave them a rinse just to be safe. He shuffled about, looking for the teabags Sherlock must have misplaced again. </p><p> </p><p>“Unrequited love. An innocent emotion that turned out deadly for Mrs. Brooks.”</p><p> </p><p>John tensed, his body stilling as he was reaching for the teabox he found under the sink. Straightening up he turned his head, catching Sherlocks gaze trained on him. Sherlock was talking about the case they had recently solved. Mrs. Brooks was stalked from afar by an unknown lover, who eventually killed her when he realized she would not love him back. John knew what Sherlock was talking about, but strangely the words felt aimed at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Very unfortunate.” John muttered finally. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, emotions are afterall… a weakness.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not always.” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm, do tell.” </p><p> </p><p>A heavy silence ensued as John suddenly regretted opening his mouth. He shut his jaw with a click and turned back to the kettle. He poured the scalding water in the cups, dipping tea bags into both. With careful steps John made his way to the living room, handing Sherlock his steaming cuppa. </p><p> </p><p>John settled back in his seat, cradling the tea in his hands. He pointedly ignored Sherlocks gaze as he looked out the window. It was snowing today. The snowflakes gently fell down, building up on the sidewalk. John watched them for a few minutes. Perhaps a walk would be nice, it had been a long time since he felt snow on his skin. </p><p> </p><p>“I'm waiting.”</p><p> </p><p>“Keep waiting then.” John all but snapped. Taking a deep breath he took a sip of the tea. It was scalding. He wrinkled his nose as his tongue darted out to cool off, a dull pain shooting through it. </p><p> </p><p>“Caring is not an advantage.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you keep saying.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why John? Do you think caring is advantageous?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock,“ John sighed, “I am not having this conversation with you again.”</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock settled back into his seat with a grunt. A loud pointed sip echoed through the living room. And then another. The obscene slurping sound continued before John was forced to look over with a glare, his hands itching to snatch the cup away from the detective. Sherlock wasn't usually a brat, but when he was in the mood, he did a great job of annoying the bloody hell out of people. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” John snapped as another slurp filled the silence. A sleek eyebrow raised up pointedly, the piercing eyes clearly saying ‘I’m waiting’.</p><p> </p><p>“Friends care for each other, and that care makes them help each other. Caring motivates one to keep the other safe.” It was hard to put a clear definition. John had so much to say but so little words to explain his thoughts. Sherlock always rejected emotion. It was as if the detective was blind to see how friends and family helped one another, how they looked out for each other because they cared. John shot the cabby because he cared. He cared if Sherlock ended up on a metal slab. If John had not cared, Sherlock would be dead. But of course, if John tried to put that thought into words Sherlock would get the wrong idea. </p><p> </p><p>“Caring also leads to complicated emotions, emotions that can be deadly for someone.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” John agreed, anything to stop the conversation. He knew this was a conversation best left alone.</p><p> </p><p>“Emotion clouds one's judgement, it makes them vulnerable. It can mean life or death. An emotion such as love would get in the way, stop the brain from completely focusing, when you are always thinking of another person.” </p><p> </p><p>Was this man trying to convince John or himself? Neither men could be sure.</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock, where the hell is this coming from?” He had not realized it, but John was now standing, his teacup clutched in a deadly grip. His leg gave a twing and he pressed his lips together. Under Sherlocks observant gaze he took deep breaths. In and out. He felt his heartbeat steady and his hands become still. These words were hitting too close to home. He would rather Sherlock just stop. Just stop, please. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are you so upset, John?”</p><p> </p><p>Like a fish, John opened and closed his mouth. His brain not quite sure what to say. He had to be careful with words around the world's most brilliant detective. He had to be very careful. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly Sherlock was up out of his seat. The tea was hastily placed on the floor, a few drops spilling out on the carpet. John did not have time to flinch before his own tea was ripped out of his hands and Sherlocks pale fingers were wrapped in a steel lock around his arms. Sherlock kept John still as he leaned in, their foreheads almost bumping together. From this close John could see the little freckles in Sherlocks mesmerizing eyes, and smell his cologne wrapping around him like a blanket. </p><p> </p><p>As trained, his body began to balance out. His heartbeat, which had spiked at Sherlock's sudden movement, returned to its usual thumping pace. He felt his breath regain the rhythm he had trained. Calmly he blinked up at Sherlock, his neck craning slightly at the height difference. Something was up with Sherlock today. The man looked almost… deranged. Preoccupied with something. Not a case, if that was the cause he would be in his mind palace right now. No, it seemed today, he was preoccupied with… John. </p><p> </p><p>One of the hands gripping him in place loosened, trailing down his arm and to his wrist. John bit his tongue, tasting blood at the intense pressure. It took everything in him to control his body from Sherlocks touch. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlocks skin was slightly cooler, grazing the underside of his wrist and gripping tightly. John realized Sherlock was measuring his pulse. Their eyes remained locked as Sherlock checked the pulse. The pain in his tongue increased, but John kept his heart steady. Praying that years of training would not give away his feelings at that moment. </p><p> </p><p>A few seconds passed. Both men staring each other down, an observant look on Sherlocks face. Slowly the plush lips John had dreamed many nights of kissing turned downward, and an emotion that was unknown to John flashed across Sherlock's face. As if burned, the detective stumbled back. John had to catch his footing at the sudden loss of the steel grip on his arms. He looked questioningly at the detective, trying to catch his gaze, but unable to as Sherlock rushed to the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock?” John called out in confusion. Quickly the detective threw on his coat, wiping it in the air with a dull crack before rushing out the door, slamming it behind him. Loud footsteps raced down the stairs before the second door was slammed shut. John vaguely heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim in surprise. </p><p> </p><p>What the hell was that?</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>It was not possible. Sherlock was always right. Every case he was right. He mind comprehended more in a minute than these other people could in their entire lifetime. Sherlock was always right. Until he wasn't. </p><p> </p><p>Was he mistaken? Was that even possible?</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock wrapped the coat tighter around himself as he hastily walked down the sidewalk. The snow had picked up and was now falling in large flakes, the wind whipping them into the face of pedestrians. Hiding behind his collar, Sherlock trudged on, trying to sort though his thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock knew, when they sat at Angelo’s. He could feel John's eyes flicking to him occasionally, humming as he ate his food. The way the soldier angled his body to be closer to Sherlock. He knew, when he told John he was not interested in romantic relationships, a small look of sadness overcoming the soldier's face, what emotion was overcoming him. </p><p> </p><p>He knew by the way they would race across crime scenes. Observing together, fighting together, solving together. He noticed the small glances his way when John thought he was not looking. The way John would step closer every time they observed a body, not too close, but enough. He knew by the way Johns pupils dilated when he towered over him, when their bodies were centimeters apart. </p><p> </p><p>Or so he thought. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlocks job was about gathering small pieces of evidence and piecing them into a bigger picture. So he took the small pieces that John offered him, and pieced them together. But it wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to see John's eyes, to feel his heartbeat spike as Sherlock stepped closer. He needed to see the foreign look of love on his face to make his final conclusion. </p><p> </p><p>Because maybe a small part of Sherlock cared. Perhaps everytime John stepped closer, thinking he was unnoticed, Sherlock would lean in close as well. Perhaps everytime John smiled at him, a rush of happiness surged through Sherlock. These things he never admitted to himself. Sherlock tried to not linger on the evidence his own body presented, instead focusing on John. He needed to know.</p><p> </p><p>So he tried today. He watched John's mouth part as he breathed steadily. Looked at the ocean eyes in the dim light, paying attention to the pupils, willing them to dilate. He felt John's warm wrist in his hand and counted the heartbeat. One, two, three. Perfectly steady. And for some reason that terrified Sherlock. It terrified him to the core that John's heartbeat remained steady as his own spiked at their proximity. </p><p> </p><p>It terrified him so much that he had to rush out, and gulp in the cold December air to make his lungs work again. Because that meant.. that meant… that Sherlock cared, and John did not. That did not make sense. Sherlock never strayed close to emotion, always choosing to shut himself off from any affection offered his way. Caring is not an advantage, he would repeat on a mantra. And it worked, he became better at it, until John entered his life. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock slowed his pace at the realization. He cared. He cared for John. His mind didn't dare say the emotion behind his care. But he did, and John… John was the emotional one, he was the one who gave Sherlock the signs, but his heartbeat… was completely still. </p><p> </p><p>“Weak.” Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice bounce through his skull. He shook his head, the curls that had been weighed down with snow bouncing back. Turning on his heel, Sherlock raced back home, ignoring the complaints of pedestrians as he all but barreled through them. He had to make sure. One more time. </p><p> </p><p>Because Sherlock was never wrong. Right?</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>John had settled into bed for night when he heard the door crash open. His hand automatically reached for the gun before he heard Sherlocks familiar voice call out his name. Rolling his eyes John settled back into his bed, pulling the covers over his face and flicking the lamp off. Sherlock could wait until morning. John needed time to think, to rebalance himself after what occurred tonight. Closing his eyes John shifted into a comfortable position. </p><p> </p><p>The door slammed, open tearing an unceremonious shout from John, who shot up from under the covers. Sherlock stood at the entryway, panting like an animal. One hand gripping the door other as another combed through his curls, shaking snow all over the floor. </p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock, what the actual-” John began, a shaking finger pointed at Sherlock. He never got to finish his sentence as the detective rushed over to the bed in one smooth motion. With one knee propped on the bed Sherlock towered over John, looking down on him with a smoldering look. John stared up like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, eyes wide, unable to speak or move. </p><p> </p><p>A pale hand took his wrist, feeling for the pulse. John winced at how cold the grip was, his eyes never straining from Sherlock. What the hell was this man doing? Had he not had enough earlier? </p><p> </p><p>“Your heart is racing.” Sherlock whispered, his voice a few octaves deeper. Not that John noticed as he took a loud gulp of air. Yanking his wrist from Sherlocks grip he tucked it under the blanket, trying to hide the shaking hands Sherlock had most likely already caught on to. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, from you barging into my room like that” John replied, trying to incorporate as much confidence as he could muster into his words. Sherlock smirked, leaning closer. Their noses brushed together and Johns breathing all but stopped. </p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes…” </p><p> </p><p>“Then why,” The ice cold hand was back on his wrist, feeling his pulse once more. John froze as Sherlock leaned down, planting a soft kiss on the soldier's neck, “do I feel it picking up pace as I do this?”</p><p> </p><p>John couldn't formulate an answer. A shiver went through his body as a pair of soft lips planted another kiss on his neck, this one higher up. Another one on his jaw. One more on the cheek. And suddenly those lips were on his, gently pressing in. John could not concentrate hard enough, knowing his heart was beating a million beats per minute. He would not control the content sigh slipping from his throat. Sherlock was kissing him. John had always imagined it in his dreams, thinking that was the only place they would ever kiss. But here Sherlock was, kissing him. </p><p> </p><p>“I was right.” Sherlock said, breaking John out of his stupor. He had been leaning forward, chasing the lips that had left as quickly as they came. John blinked up at him in confusion. Had this been a bloody experiment? He felt heat flush his face, painting tan cheeks a deep red. </p><p> </p><p>“I swear to god Sherlock, if this is another one of you experiments-”</p><p> </p><p>“You love me.”</p><p> </p><p>If John could disappear he would. The heat in his face became a flame. Sherlock looked at him, waiting for an answer, the pale hand still gripping his wrist. John tried to pull his hand away, but was met with an iron-like grip. Sherlock raised a sleek eyebrow, prompting John to answer. John shook his head, knowing how childish he looked as he refused to say anything. </p><p> </p><p>Another soft kiss was planted on his cheek, up to his temple and onto his forehead. John sighed at the soft touches, leaning into them. A deep chuckle echoed about the room, and John cursed himself out at how he reacted. After years of training, after years at war...  a simple kiss and he was a melting puddle of goo? </p><p> </p><p>“It's okay John. You don't have to answer. Your heartbeat tells me everything I need to know.” Sherlock purred out. </p><p> </p><p>He was right. It was a dead giveaway. </p><p> </p><p>John jerked his hand out of Sherlock's grip, turning the icy hand and putting two fingers on the detectives pulse. Sherlock froze above him, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. John leaned up, planting a soft kiss on the lips, feeling intently at the wrist. There it was. A hammering heartbeat he had been looking for. If they pressed together right now, John was sure their hearts would beat in sync. Both fast, with nerves and desire. </p><p> </p><p>“So does yours.” John whispered against the pliant lips of the detective. He wasn't sure what to expect from Sherlock. He knew the man was deathly afraid of emotion, perhaps even to the point of hating it. He expected the detective to jump away, fearing what he had given away. Or a laugh that mocked John for being tricked into admitting his feelings. John however, did not expect a deep kiss to be planted on his lips and the familiar smell of cologne to fill his sense as Sherlock pushed him onto the bed. </p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps it does.” Sherlock whispered, before bringing them into a fierce kiss. </p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It is maddening to read the fic over 15 times, post it, and then find multiple grammar errors you missed. So I do apologize if you encounter any! </p><p>Once again, feedback would be lovely! Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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